My Escape from the World Trade Center
Australian businessman and father of three Hans Kunnen escaped from the World Trade Center on September 11 last year. Hans tells his story.
I write this from a personal perspective, in that as an economist (I’m head of Investment Markets Research for Colonial First State Investments in Sydney), I was sitting in the National Association of Business Economists Conference at 8.51 am on September 11, 2001, on the ground floor of the World Trade Center Marriott Hotel. It was at the base of the North Tower, and one of seven buildings that comprised the World Trade Centre.
When the first plane hit, all we felt was a dull thud, then, a moment later, the sound of a seemingly distant explosion. I thought it was earthquake, as the lights and tables shook. Within moments, people headed for the doors, running for their lives.
Whimps, I thought. What’s the matter with them? I didn’t recall it at that moment, but it wasn’t the first time the complex had been the object of a terrorist attack.
Within a minute or two, there were only three of us left in the room. We wandered out to see what had happened.
As I entered the hotel lobby, dishevelled and frightened people streamed into the foyer seeking shelter. They were in shock and some had obviously been injured by falling debris and burning jet fuel from the impact of the first plane to crash, American Airlines Flight 11.
I knew I was in the midst of a disaster and that this was the end of my stay, so I went to a lift to go to my room on the sixth floor and retrieve my luggage, but the alarms were sounding and I was refused entry, and politely asked to leave the complex.
Just after 9 am, I walked outside in the direction of the Hudson River. As I exited, I was greeted by a shower of burning paper swirling in the wind in a streetscape that resembled a war zone. It was. It was strewn with rubble, assorted debris and burning cars.
I walked across to Liberty Street, between the two World Financial Center buildings about 200 metres away, and looked back to where smoke belched from the stricken, doomed North Tower.
But as I gasped in awe at the horror, the air was filled with the deafening roar of jet engines.
I watched horrified and unbelieving as another plane, United Airlines Flight 175, slammed into the upper floors of the South Tower behind my hotel.
Flame, smoke and glass erupted. Bodies and debris were blown out of the building and rained down.
From that moment, I did not look back. It was time to get away. My mind raced: Were more planes coming? Where would safety be found? I’d taken the Staten Island ferry from Battery Point, about 700 metres south, on the previous Saturday, so I fast-walked to the wharf. It seemed the best alternative at the time. There I joined thousands of others attempting to escape the carnage and whatever else might be about to follow. Suddenly, just as the ferry boarding gates opened, behind me came a thunderous noise.
People screamed. We thought the city was being attacked yet again, and this time I thought I might die. It was the South Tower collapsing. As we took our places on the ferry, smoke, ash and dust billowed toward us, enveloping the ferry; people donned life jackets.
As a Christian, I thought I would be welcomed if knocked on the door of a church in Staten Island and asked for help.
But, amazingly, and in the altered spirit of care and goodwill that immediately enveloped New Yorkers in the wake of the tragedy, a complete stranger standing near me on the ferry asked me and three other strangers to join her family at their home until things were sorted out. Her name is Leslie Castelucci.
The Casteluccis and their neighbours gave me clothing, and took me in as if I were a close family member. I weep as I remember her act of kindness.
Meanwhile, my wife, Suzanne, was at home in Sydney. She was woken by her mother soon after the first plane hit and, in the cold, dark hours following, watched live on television as the second plane hit and the towers collapsed. Our three children, thankfully, remained asleep, unaware of my peril.
Suzanne, of course, knew I was in New York, and vaguely recalled me mentioning the World Trade Center as my destination. She rang some workmates to ask, and they confirmed the conference location. When she heard nothing from me, she began to fear the worst. A friend came round for company, and she and others prayed for my safety. But mostly she sat in silent horror and watched the drama and its aftermath replayed over and again on television.
I knew I was safe, but she didn’t. It was almost four hours after the attack before I was able to contact her, at about 2.30 am (AEST). The day had been bad for me, but for Suzanne it was a nightmare.
Two days later, I headed back into Manhattan, to a hotel close to the Australian Consulate. I’d lost my passport, airline tickets, cash, clothing and other personal effects in the inferno, although, fortunately, I did still have my wallet.
But even that journey wasn’t without drama. Paranoia and extraordinary security were apparent everywhere. As my bus approached the New Jersey Turn pike, a major artery into Manhattan, it was halted in a traffic jam. We were told to dismount and find our own way into the city.
Just as I alighted, a police car, with sirens screaming, pulled over a car just 20 metres from me. Three policemen jumped out, and at gunpoint ordered the driver out, a shotgun held under his nose. Just above the suburban rooftops, a police chopper, hovered.
It was like a scene from a police drama. Having survived September 11, I didn’t want to die in a shoot-out with either a car thief or terrorist, so I ducked behind a big green Lincoln. But within a few minutes the hapless motorist (he must have inadvertently run a road block) was released and we all went on our way.
With the bus a no-goer, I switched my mode of transport to rail, eventually making it to Grand Central Station, the world’s largest, in the middle of Manhattan.
Again I was met by police, this time with megaphones, asking us not to panic but to leave the building, as there was a bomb threat in the station.
As if my nerves weren’t frayed enough! Having organised a new passport and bought a few new clothes, I waited for the airports to reopen. I gave blood. I went to church. I wandered through Central Park and watched TV. I cried and I prayed. But I also dwelt on Psalm 25 and thanked God for His safekeeping.
New York was a hurt and sorrowing place, and I was looking forward to getting home. But it was a week before I finally flew into Sydney, and with tears flowing once again, I wrapped my arms around my much relieved family.
And what do I make of it now, in retrospect? Well, I’ve come to appreciate that any minute might be my last. And if that’s the case, I recognise the continuing need to “be right” with my family, my friends and, mostly, with God at all times. Also, and without being crippled by constant morbid thoughts, I’m now more caring toward others and try to make the most of opportunities I’m afforded.
On September 11, 2001, I almost lost my life, my wife and my children. But I realise that in this dangerous and uncertain world, where everyone, even children it seems, is a target, I could lose them tomorrow, so every day I thank God for them. Despite my busy and demanding career, I give them all more of my attention and time.
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